


A Gentle Touch

by theorchardofbones



Series: From Darkness to Light [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Prompto playing nurse, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-19 07:20:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11308479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: Gladiolus's wound isn't healing so well after his trial at the Proving Grounds. Prompto takes it upon himself to step in.Written forPromptio Weekday 5, under the prompt 'memento'.





	A Gentle Touch

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow Prompto and Gladio's story [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/756873).
> 
> Find me on tumblr! My personal is [here](https://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com), and my ffxv blog is [here](flowercrownsandchocobos.tumblr.com).

The gash across Gladiolus’s chest is ugly and raw, healing poorly. He knows it will scar; knows it will be written into him forever, like the eagle outstretched across his skin.

It feels like a badge to him — a trophy. Proof of his worth.

His friends are more interested in the other cut, the one on his face. They laugh about it, they feign awe. They make light of his quest to the Proving Grounds, but they don’t know that it almost cost him his life.

He doesn’t tell them that the cut across his torso still bleeds, still opens up when he exerts himself too much — which seems to be all the time, lately. He makes sure to clean it and change the bandages when he’s alone, where the others can’t see. He hides it, because he knows they’ll worry.

They have enough to worry about.

He can feel it even now, oozing through the gauze, turning the dark grey of his tank to a murky black. The pain itself is just a sting — a distraction from more important things.

Prompto’s down; the Voretooth has him pinned, gnashing at his face with its maws. Gladiolus runs over, swinging his greatsword as he goes. It cuts through the beast like butter and he shoves the body away, gripping Prompto’s hand and pulling him to his feet.

‘Keep it together, Prompto,’ he growls.

Prompto looks at him, wide-eyed. His glance lingers around the middle of Gladiolus’s chest, taking in the stain there. Before he can get a chance to piece things together, Gladiolus grips him by the shoulder and nudges him back into the fray.

The battle is over swiftly, but not as tidily as Gladiolus would have liked. Noct misjudged a point-warp and wound up smacking face-first into a rock; Prompto never should have been overpowered so easily. 

Noct sits alone, nursing a bruise on his lip. When Gladiolus moves to check on him, he sees Prompto give him a meaningful glance. His eyes flick, once again, down to the stain spreading out into the fabric of his shirt.

Gladiolus turns away, ignoring him.

* * *

It’s easy enough to take supplies out of the first aid kit without the others noticing — it’s finding the time and privacy to patch himself up that proves challenging. They’re back in the car on the way back to turn in a hunt and he knows they’re still a while from civilisation. He can feel blood dampening the gauze on his chest, and he almost doesn’t dare look down for fear of what he’ll see.

Noct hasn’t noticed yet — not that he would — and Ignis has been too engrossed in driving to check in with him. It’s Prompto that he’s worried about; he keeps twisting around in his seat to look him over, his eyes always finding their way back to the stain on Gladiolus’s shirt.

The others order food from a cart while Noct turns in the hunt. Gladiolus takes the opportunity to slip away, hunting down the rest room with his borrowed medical supplies in hand.

It’s a dingy little bathroom, lit by a flickering fluorescent. The sink looks like it hasn’t seen disinfectant in a lifetime, but it’ll have to do.

He lifts his tank to inspect the damage, looking at the red stain blooming across the gauze on his chest in the chipped mirror in front of him. Methodically, he peels away at the medical tape holding down the edges and pulls a corner aside, wincing as the bandage separates from delicate scar tissue.

It’s not as bad as he had suspected, although it seems he has busted a couple more of the stitches Cor put in place for him. He really needs to be more careful.

The door squeaks open behind him, filling the room with wan light from outside, and he lets his shirt drop. It’s too late — Prompto is there, his eyes fixed on the mirror, having already seen enough.

‘Dude,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

He’s already through the door, marching across the grimy tiles, and suddenly he’s at Gladiolus’s side. Too fast, too close; his hand finds its way to Gladiolus’s ribs and comes to gently rest there.

Gladiolus had been set to brush him off, to flinch away, but he doesn’t. Just stands there and lets Prompto press his fingers a little into the material of his shirt and look up at him with those big blue doe eyes.

Grudgingly, he allows Prompto to pull up his shirt and peel off the rest of the tape. He’s so tentative as he lifts the bandage, brow furrowed in concentration. He draws in a sharp breath when he sees the size of the gash.

‘This is pretty bad,’ he says. ‘You probably need new stitches. And maybe to take it easy for a little while.’

His fingers probe a little too close to the wound; Gladiolus grunts in pain. With an apologetic grimace, Prompto steps back and lets his hand drop.

‘We gotta tell the others,’ Prompto says. He’s uncharacteristically grave, and it’s unnerving. ‘Iggy, at least. He’ll know what to do.’

‘No,’ Gladiolus says, sharply. ‘It’s fine. I just gotta be more careful picking _your_ ass up off the ground.’

Prompto doesn’t seem convinced, but neither does he make any moves to go tell the others. Instead, he helps Gladiolus — helping him tug the shirt up over his head, undressing the wound, washing it carefully with saline solution from the little blue bottle Gladiolus took from the first aid kit. To say it smarts is an understatement, but Prompto is gentle.

The fluorescent buzzes overhead, droning at the edge of Gladiolus’s thoughts. He can hear Prompto’s breathing just above it, slow and measured.

‘You sure you won’t let somebody look at this?’ Prompto says.

‘You’re looking, aren’t you?’

Prompto sighs. He looks up, eyes narrowed in frustration — in concern, maybe. Gladiolus feels cool fingertips press to his ribs, feels them slide a little down to his waist. The touch leaves a trail of goosebumps behind it.

‘I’m serious, Gladio.’

Did he always have those circles under his eyes? Those little lines around his mouth? Gladiolus realises, maybe for the first time, that he never knows just what is going on under that mop of meticulously-styled blond hair.

He thinks of a day, weeks before, when they had wound up lost together in the woods; when he had felt a little pang of something, something worryingly close to jealousy, as he had seen a stranger take hold of Prompto’s hand.

Prompto’s fingers are still pressed to his skin, blue eyes staring up at him.

‘Finish patching me up first,’ Gladiolus says gently, ‘and then I’ll think about it.’

Prompto presses his lips together, but nevertheless he returns his attention to his task. He’s more timid and careful than Gladiolus might ever have thought possible as he affixes fresh gauze in place and seals it with tape.

Gladiolus slips into a clean shirt, grateful for the reprieve from the stickiness at the front of the old one. He hopes the others don’t question the wardrobe change.

‘Good as new,’ Prompto says.

They should be confident words, but there’s a waver in his voice. He nibbles at his lip and just for a moment — one fleeting, dizzying moment — Gladiolus finds himself looking at Prompto’s mouth.

Whatever this is, whatever daydream they’ve stepped into, Prompto shatters it by slugging him companionably in the shoulder. Surprisingly, it hurts. _A lot._

Gladiolus waits until Prompto has gone ahead, letting himself out, to rub at his shoulder with a wince. Who would have thought the guy could pack such a punch?


End file.
